Polar Quest

17

‘My ex-husband, Oz, stabbed me. I’m bleeding, bleeding all over. God, it hurts.’

Fink rewound the 911 tape and listened to it again. In her last breaths, Faye Olson had put a name to her killer. As soon as he learned the victim had made the call to 911, he requested that a tape be made and run out to him at the crime scene.

The entire conversation was just a few seconds long, but it gave Fink a direction to follow. He popped the tape out of the dash, locked it in the glove box of his car, and walked back into Olson’s house. It was almost dawn and the evidence technicians were still at work dusting for prints and taking samples.

‘Anybody see anything like a personal phone book or a wedding album?’ he asked.

‘There’s a phone book in the kitchen, in the drawer closest to the phone,’ one of the techs replied. ‘I saw a box in the small bedroom closet that had photo albums in it. What you’re looking for might be in there.’

‘Thanks.’

Fink stepped in the smaller of the two bedrooms and found the box. There were five thick albums inside. He thumbed through the first one and found pictures of Olson with the large man he’d seen in the picture in the living room. Both were younger in these pictures, mid-twenties at most.

In the third album, he found pictures of an outdoor wedding ceremony — the tall man had been Olson’s husband. There was also a laminated copy of the engraved invitation for the wedding of Faye Elizabeth Olson and Oswald Raymond Eames.

Fink went to the kitchen and pulled Olson’s phone book from the drawer. He flipped the book open to E and found what he was looking for at the top of the list. Eames lived in a condominium complex on Ann Arbor’s south side. Fink copied down Eames’s work and home information into a small notebook.

‘Good morning, Detective,’ the judge said as Fink entered his home. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I need a search warrant, sir.’

‘Can I get you a cup of coffee? My wife just put on a pot.’

‘No, sir. I’m fine.’

The judge led Fink to his study and sat down behind an oak desk. Volumes of legal tomes lined the shelves around the room.

‘Your Honor, there’s been a double homicide at a home in Ann Arbor — a man and a woman. There’s evidence that the woman was raped as well. We have a suspect and I’d like a warrant to collect a blood sample.’

‘Probable cause?’

Fink nodded. ‘The suspect was ID’ed by one of the victims on a nine-one-one call.’

‘Good enough.’

Fink pulled the warrant he’d drafted out of his pocket and handed it to the judge. The judge looked the document over, found everything in order, and signed it.

An Ann Arbor Police patrol car followed Fink’s Chevrolet as he turned off Ellsworth into one of the bland industrial-research parks that proliferated near the municipal airport. The two cars pulled up in front of the sign that read UGENE.

‘May I help you?’ the receptionist asked politely as Fink and two uniformed officers stepped into the lobby.

‘Yes, we’re here to see Oswald Eames,’ Fink replied.

‘Can I ask what this is regarding?’

‘It’s police business.’

‘He’s off his phone. I can show you back to his office.’

The receptionist buzzed them through and led Fink and the patrolmen back to Eames’s office. Fink immediately recognized Eames from the photographs in Olson’s home. Eames stood from behind his desk and towered over Fink and the two uniformed officers.

‘What can I do for you, gentlemen?’ Eames asked genially.

‘Oswald Eames,’ Fink began, ‘you have the right to remain silent.’

‘Excuse me?’ Eames asked in disbelief. ‘Am I being arrested?’

‘Yes, you are,’ Fink replied.

Fink continued with the recitation of Eames’s Miranda rights, his eyes locked on the scientist’s face. Eames stared right back at him with bewildered anger.

‘Do you understand these rights as I have explained them to you?’ Fink asked.

Eames stood silent. For a brief instant, he had the feeling of being outside himself, observing the unreal scene. ‘I understand my rights, Detective. What I don’t understand is why.’

‘You’re under arrest for murder.’

‘You have got to be kidding! I’m no murderer.’

‘There’s evidence that says otherwise.’

‘Your evidence is fucked. Who am I accused of killing?’

‘Faye Olson and Lloyd Sutton.’

Eames looked at Fink as if he hadn’t understood. ‘What? Faye and Lloyd are dead? But I just saw Lloyd yesterday. They’re both dead? God, Jesus, no!’

Weeping, he sagged as if a heavy weight suddenly bore down on his shoulders, his legs too weak to support the load. He placed his hands on the desktop, bracing himself, then dropped into his chair. Between sobs, Eames moaned ‘Jesus, no,’ over and over.

To Fink and the two officers, Eames seemed oblivious of them, retreating into a sorrow that was either genuine or well presented for their benefit. Regardless of the nature of his grief, Fink directed the officers to cuff Eames’s wrists and remove him to the squad car.